


A Fine Trinket

by GoeticDisciple



Series: God and Gunpowder [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Masturbation, POV Second Person, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoeticDisciple/pseuds/GoeticDisciple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortan Joe and Second Person POV. This is what happens when you join up with his War Party and he notices you while he's inspecting his camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fine Trinket

**Author's Note:**

> After today's Tumblr MMFR confessions drama about people wanting to fuck Joe, I thought it would be appropriate to drop this little gem.  
> Love,  
> Your crazy smeg author

You crossed his path earlier in the day and made the mistake of looking him in the eye with your typical boldness. He paused and his Imperators sneered at you. The Immortan silenced them both with a quick look. It was then you realized your mistake. In trying to show bravery and fearlessness, you just put yourself on the list. The list of things to be sampled.

Now you understood the old woman from the last camp, the one who'd clutched at your forearm before you'd hopped into your buggy. The one who'd tried so hard to make you understand that invisible was better.

After the evening meal, you’re leaning into the engine compartment of your vehicle, checking the spark plug gaps when suddenly you realize you’re not alone. It’s way too quiet. He is there, behind you. Breathing through that hissing mask. You feel him press up against you and you drop your spanner into the engine compartment, where it clangs on the block and thumps into the dirt under the car. One of his hands grips your shoulder, pushing you down. He is strong but his hands are soft, the hands of man who has others work for him. His fingers worm between you and the car body, grab the fly of your pants and rip it open, ruining the zipper. He tugs your pants down below your ass. Against your buttock, you feel the folds of his linen trousers and underneath them, the hard rod of his cock, then he’s using the same hand to undo his own pants and soon it’s skin on skin.  
  
His armor is hard against your back. It hurts. You’re glad when he stands up straight and gets the edge of it off you.  
  
The mask is chugging away in the carefully silent night.  
  
He pushes his cock between your thighs, feels the folds of your softest place and finds his spot. With a hard push and a searing pain, he parts you with himself and immediately begins to thrust. You’ve been conscious of him – every day for a week, since you joined up – so you’re low-level ready, not wholly dry and it’s not so awfully painful that your body can’t begin to respond.  
  
He’s used to the feel of rape so when you soften about him and grow wet, he notices. He leans over you, his long hair brushing your back, the hand on your shoulder coming down to grip your waist. The hoses of the mask touch your spine.  
  
He says, “Oh, so you want this?”  
  
“Yes,” you moan.  
  
It makes him even harder inside you.  
  
He’s a tall man, and at one point in his life was muscular and broad shouldered. His cock is commensurate with his former physique. He’s thrusting hard, looking to hurt you, looking to dominate and take and wound. He succeeds in all three. It does hurt, and each time you whimper, he adjusts so he can hit that painful spot with greater force. This is a man who may never have known how to love a woman without hurting.  The thought makes you spasm, which makes it hurt more and pleases him. He hisses into your ear, “Tight, aren’t you?”  
  
He doesn’t want an answer. He just wants to break you.  
  
He pulls out and for a moment, you’re relieved. Panting, you stay where you are. He grabs you and spins you around. You see: mask, hair, gleam of armor and his mean, glittering eyes. With ease, he lifts you up so you’re sitting on the frame of the car. You have to scrabble to find handholds with which to brace yourself. Your threadbare trousers are ripped again and now both your legs are free, one leg flying the torn-clothes flag of rape. Except that it’s not rape, it’s mean and painful and tomorrow at minimum you will ache like you've been kicked, but nobody’s forcing you to drop your knees apart to allow him to step in close so he can jam his cock back into your body.  
  
Warlord.  
  
Fucking you.  
  
His belly rests heavy on yours as he plows headlong towards his orgasm. You’re both face to face, that snorting horse-toothed mask inches away from your nose, and his eyes drilling into yours. You make your own toothy snarl, which gets you his brows drawn down and the mask pressed into your face. His scent: dusty clay, sharp sweat and the tang of some antiseptic used on his wounds fills your nose. Better than the sour reek of the War Boys, for certain.  
  
He’s trying so hard to make you scream. The noises he’s getting are closer to moans, and as you turn your head to the side, you see the other men are watching. Some are openly masturbating. Few have ever seen their warlord God take his pleasure with a willing woman. This change is exciting to them.  
  
They’re going to gang rape me when he’s done, you think, and then you’re afraid. Somehow, you have to make him want to keep you for himself.  
  
You brace yourself with one hand on the headers and bring the other up to the back of his head, between skull and bellows. His hair is very soft, everything about him under his armor is soft. He’s like a hermit crab, safe in his shell but vulnerable when exposed. You slide your hand down until your palm is on the back of his neck - again, soft, neckroll, no wounds and not unpleasant. Warm, slighty damp with the effort of his fucking. You press your face into his throat, under his ear, tasting the chalky skin and the salt of the day’s sweat. He grunts, loses his rhythm for a moment, surprised by the reciprocation. Then he lifts his chin, giving you greater access to the skin there, and rediscovers his pace.  
  
You kiss him hard, up and down his neck, the air filter from the respirator digging into your cheek. Does he ever take it off? you wonder. He must, but definitely not out here, in the Waste.  
  
He’s getting ragged now, pumping fast. You wrap your legs around his hips and lever yourself into each of his thrusts. He’s hitting bottom, thudding home, and you're seeing stars. He starts to rumble and grunt and you know he’s coming when he stamps his feet like a stallion, shuddering into you, his face pointed towards the bright, round moon.  
  
The mask is a little askew as he pulls away. You gently reposition it and trail your hand down his wattled throat, resting your fingertips in the patch of smooth skin underneath his small scarf.  
  
His eyes are bright with exhausted excitement. Spent… but not satisfied.  
  
You look towards his troops. Some haven’t realized he’s finished and are still jacking away. Others have their heads thrust forward like hunting dogs, ready to pounce as soon as he disengages and departs.  
  
Joe follows your gaze. As he focuses on his War Boys, you stroke his skin. Gently. With your internal muscles, you squeeze his softening cock. His gaze returns to you and is now jealous.  
  
Success.  
  
One of the War Boys comes with a shuddering moan.  
  
Joe’s head snaps up. The breeze catches his hair and ruffles it into a fierce lion’s mane. His voice is a threatening roar. “Back in your tents, dogs!”  
  
War Boys scatter everywhere like bugs.  
  
“Now then.” He returns his attention back to you as he pulls out, stuffing himself back into his trousers. “You’re a fine little trinket, indeed. Come camp by the Gigahorse when you are finished with your maintenance. I like to keep what’s mine close.”  
  
“Yes, Immortan,” you whisper. He beams.  
  
Trinket.  
  
That’s your name.


End file.
